Write my Name in Blood
by Author of Scifi
Summary: Black was shaking; beautifully and wonderfully shaking... he wanted the man dead at his feet yet lifted up as an example to humanity. He shook with rejection and acceptance.


_Closest thing to a drabble I've ever written. Whether or not this will actually turn into a chapter story remains to be seen.... I might write another similar oneshot that isn't connected really to this, though. If you haven't read Ted Dekker's Paradise series, meh, you might still enjoy the drabble, but it will make a lot more sense if you actually know who Marsuvees is. I think you'd get more out of it knowing who Marsuvees is and not knowing who B is than vice-versa, but whatever. Reviews are appreciated either way._

_Oh, and TheZaniac stole the idea from _me, _not the other way around. *glares*_

**Write My Name in Blood**

"Wanna trip, baby?"

The cliché-ish phrase issued easily from Black's mouth, a dim reflection of the evil that writhed and flourished in the core of his heart, emanating out like a tangible drug to be taken in by all who passed him, enticing all to drink deep. Grace juice.

The man across from his was staring steadily into his eyes, in an easy stance, his breathing oddly mimicking Black's, as if they were joined somehow; but they weren't, of course. Black wasn't weak enough to allow himself to be bonded with anyone except, of course, his maker… _Billy. _The thought of the man was enough to make him throw his head back and laugh a maniacal, black laugh. The slimy, maggot filled piece of flesh, nothing more than another of Black's own appendages.

But this wasn't about Billy now. It was about _him. _The man across the clearing. A man who seemed to be reading him like a book, who was taking in every bit of what he was exuding without flinching or showing the fear any mortal, unless Black himself desired otherwise, should be showing in his presence. The exact opposite, almost, wearing a haughty and casual smile, seeming to bask in Black's malice.

"Depends on what you mean by trip, Marsuvees."

_Curious. The boy knows my name._ For the young man standing in front of him couldn't be a day over twenty. _I don't like it that t he worm knows my name yet I've never seen him before._ He wasn't scared, of course. He wasn't nervous, or anxious; no, nothing more than intrigued. "Trip on grace juice, boy. I got enough to soak the whole world."

"Then why haven't you?" The man leaned against the tree, seemingly unphased by the two men hanging from the tree above him. The first lynching site. He acted like a man used to being around dead bodies and demons.

"I prefer personal experience, one-on-one experience." Odd thing about it was that Marsuvees and the black haired, pale, skinny boy standing across from him were talking as if they had known each other, with the same gestures, the same affability and camaraderie, the same joking manner and speech, while in truth, they had just met. Under rather unfavorable circumstances too; Black standing there in the trees, looking at the gorgeous dead bodies hanging from the ropes, the night smothering all light and comfort.

And then… he just walked up and responded to his blasphemously religious query; _wanna trip, baby?_

"Personal? Define personal. In this age of technology personal could be talking to someone over the Internet or the phone. People seem to have lost the understanding that human contact provides for many benefits."

The answer greatly amused the pseudo-preacher. "Personal enough to hang their necks from a tree, boy."

"Personal enough to shove a knife between their ribs. I like your style, Black," he commented, finally looking above him at the bodies, watching as a single drop of blood fell next to him on the grass. "Freshly hung, I'm assuming, since otherwise they wouldn't be bleeding. All the blood would be in the legs."

"You're observant. Very freshly hung." His smug tone complimented the smirk.

"Good." The man stuck out his hand, waiting for the next drop of carmine. When it splashed warmly onto his hand, he lapped up the single dot hungrily, as if there was a lot more than there actually was.

Marsuvees raised his right eyebrow, parted his lips slightly and chuckled deeply. "You're bold, aren't you? Drinking blood from a stranger is quite inhuman."

"Is it?" asked the man as he lifted his hand again, waiting for the next crimson tear. "Blood is blood. How it's shed makes no difference in it itself. Unless, of course, you're using some sort of biological means… but then, why am I defending my humanity?" When he felt another drop land on his hand, he didn't lick it. Rather he lowered his hand and let it run slowly down his finger, hanging in suspension for a few seconds before losing its hold on his delicate finger and falling into the grass.

"What's your name, boy?"

"What's in a name? By any other name wouldn't jam taste just as sweet?"

"By any other name wouldn't evil be just as alluring?" Marsuvees smiled darkly. "Why jam? It's sickly sweet and gets all over you."

"You're right. In fact, I loathe the substance." With that, he reached into the pocket and pulled out a packet of something, much like what you could pick up at fast food restaurants; ketchup? The man ripped open the package and drank it in one fast, loud slurp.

Black hated to show any curiosity, but this man was such an oddity, something Black needed to explain. _Could it be possible he is a result of my writing in the Books of History? And I didn't know about it? I pray so. His mind would be wasted in the dregs of society. _"What are you eating?"

"Jam, what else?"

….Black yearned to ask the obvious question _"If you don't like it, why are you eating it"?_ And he hated himself for it. Such a base question…. So why did he have any inclination to inquire?

"I'm assuming you want to know why I eat jam even though I hate it, but your pride stops you from asking such human question. So I'll answer for you." Tearing open another packet, he drank it, much slower than the last one, seemingly savoring the taste he hated. "All of humanity wallows in things that they hate. Do you understand why?" The question was purely rhetorical, as the man kept talking without any break. "They are all pursuing after unattainable goals, wealth and fame and power. Humanity can never have enough of any of those. Yet they'll chase after the rabbits anyway. In such, they run into problems and griefs they could have avoided, if not for their avaricious hearts. Me… I have one goal, one with a temporary end. In that, I feel as if I'm cheating fate as well as myself. So I punish myself. Really, this is just reminiscent of my childhood rituals where I would drink blood." Beyond stared Marsuvees dead in his empty eyes. "The jam merely replaced the blood when my source committed suicide. This is my religion, Marsuvees, my creed; all to enhance my sole drive toward my life's goal."

Marsuvees was shaking. Beautifully, wonderfully shivering with mixed emotions. He hated this man, yet he loved him; he understood nothing of what he said, yet he understood all. He wanted him dead at his feet and he wanted him to be lifted as an example to humanity. He shook with rejection and acceptance. "What _is _that goal, boy?"

"That is one thing you will not figure out…" With that, the man turned and left, leaving nothing but a whisper of his presence.

When Marsuvees left out of the woods a few minutes later, he stopped and stared and at a certain tree, red written on it. _Beyond Birthday_…? Marsuvees finger trailed the red lines, almost mesmerized by nothing but the ominous feel they had.

Then he left, reveling in his victory.


End file.
